


Such A Perfect Day

by telemachus



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, M/M, Spoilers for that one., side story to Fighting the Spiders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-24
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-22 10:53:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2505242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A very short one-shot side story to Fighting the Spiders.<br/>Will make no sense at all if you haven't read that, & has spoilers in. So be warned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Such A Perfect Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [consumptive_sphinx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/consumptive_sphinx/gifts).



> Because Snow set me thinking, and the only way to stop was to write it.

As ever, he has no need to try, he has no need to give me any thought. 

As ever, just knowing that he is in me, that it is me he has chosen for today – today – a Saturday – not just hurried pleasure in the office, not just the casual ‘Cook for me’, that he often flings my way at the end of a busy day – but today – today he phoned me, told me to come round – and knowing that is enough for me, that and the feel of him deep, deep within me causes me to come, shuddering under him.

He doesn’t say anything then, just touches my face, gently, I don’t know why, I don’t know what he is thinking.

I know what he isn’t thinking.

He isn’t thinking of love.

But – I know what he likes, how he likes me to move under him, how he likes to be touched – so I do, because – how can I not? and – there is a moment when my world is perfect, when I can see his face, eyes shut, mouth half open, as he moves that once – twice – and – and he cries out a name.

His dead wife’s name.

I close my eyes against the pain, and wonder why every time I let myself believe it could be different.

I don’t know if he knows he does it. I don’t think so.

I can’t – won’t – believe he would be so cruel deliberately.

Sometimes I wonder whether he does that with all the others, whether they don’t mind, or whether he takes more care with them.

In a way, I hope it is only me.

If I can have nothing else from him, then at least I would have his trust, that with me he is more – relaxed – than with any other.

He stays motionless, head bowed over me, eyes still shut, breathing hard, for a long moment, and I let myself look at him, let myself love him.

I always love him.

I have loved him so long. I cannot remember a time I did not know I loved him.

My parents used to tease me for it, say I would grow out of it in time, would love another, properly. They stopped saying that the day they watched me take my oath of service to him. I suppose there was something in my face that told them I meant more by it. We never spoke of it again, but I noticed they stopped speaking of grandchildren, stopped planning for any future vowing of mine.

I daresay they would be disappointed in me if they knew how I live now.

The things I have done.

But it is long since they died.

Long since the little elfling I cared for, his child, became an adult. An adult who I will protect as long as I can from the knowledge I live with.

Knowledge that would break me – if there was any other to whom I could hand responsibility. But there is none. 

And so – I will not fail him. Whatever he needs, he will have.

I love him, my King, my leader, Thranduil.

It is the way the world is.

 

 

 

The phone rings as I am cooking. Sex first, then food. 

Then go home.

Always.

 

 

 

He answers, and I hear the conversation.

It is his son, they are arranging to ride tomorrow.

I daresay his son knows – knows he has someone. I doubt he knows how many, I doubt he knows that sometimes it is I. 

 

 

 

He comes through.

“That’s a nuisance,” he says, “Legolas wants to collect me at five in the morning. You will have to go home tonight.”

I look at him,  
“I always do,” I say.

He turns away from me, and – were he any other, I would say he plays nervously with the pen he is holding. As it is – he does not. He moves it idly in his fingers.

And I – I can barely concentrate for watching his hand.

“Yes,” he says, bringing me back to the conversation, “yes, you always have. But – I was going to say stay. I need you to go through a lot of papers tonight – it will be late. Did you bring your car?”

“No,” I say, thinking – because I know you will want to drink, and unlike you, unlike your son, I do not wish to drive with alcohol inside me. “No. I can walk if the tube is down.”

“Or you could stay.” His face twists ironically, “I think I can trust you to lock the door.”

I nod, silently.

No car – means his son will not know I am here. I can be gone before he returns. This house is large enough – I am not about to assume he means stay with him. Just – a practical arrangement.

 

 

 

But he does mean stay with him. 

All night.

I cannot sleep – I need to remember this. It may never happen again.

He is even more beautiful in his reverie.

I have never felt so – complete.

 

 

 

I bring him coffee to wake him. I don’t know if that's right, but – he seems pleased.

I am dressed, ready to leave once he has gone, but – he turns as he opens the door,

“Finish off the papers. Have dinner ready – my dear son never eats on these days out. I shall be hungry later,” he pauses, tosses me a key, “in fact, you may as well go home and get whatever you need for tomorrow, you were no trouble overnight.”

He is gone before I can answer.

 

 

 

And so – I have one day of perfection.

One day of knowing I spent the night in his bed, that I will be with him tonight. 

That if it isn’t love for him – it is something more than simple convenience.

 

 

 

When he comes home he looks at me.

“It is over,” he says, and I die inside, “my son has found out – more than we ever wanted him to know. He intends to inform. That dwarf – it is always dwarves – will take us down.”

I breathe again. 

It is not that he wishes me to leave.

Then I understand what he has said.

I wait.

“First flight tomorrow morning,” he says, and I know where he means, “you can drive me, still be at work. He will need you around.”

I nod.

I don’t ask what he thinks will happen to me – I know. I notice it does not matter to him, but why would it?

Keeping him safe is what matters now. 

Oh my silly prince, I think, what have you unleashed?

Knowing it is the last time – I want so to tell him how I feel – but I do not.

He has never cared. There is no point.

I please him.

I hear him cry out her name, one last time.

I watch him reverie, walking with her in dreams, I suppose.

And in the morning, I drive him to the airport, I nod farewell as though it was another trip.

I return to the office, I fend off questions, I carry on.

How can I not?

Whatever he needs from me, I will do.

 

 

And when the storm comes, when the world we have built falls apart – I hold on.

I lie.

As he would have me do.

 

 

 

And when the storm is passed – I pick up the pieces, I begin to make all well again for our people.

I care for them.

As he would have me do.

 

 

 

I ache for what has happened to his son. 

But there is nothing I can do.

He tells me this. Tells me to leave well alone, to concentrate on what I am good at.

“Do not you dare fail him now,” he says to me, “he has given so much to free us all from their evil. Now it is time to build something for him to return to.”

Of course, I do not see him, it is not possible. He cannot return to this country, I dare not go to him, though every nerve in my body tells me to run to his side, I do not know who is watching me. 

I do as I am told.

Whatever he needs from me, he will have.

 

 

 

And when his son is to be freed – I think surely now – now I have done enough, now I can go to him, pick up that wounded, battered hero, and take him to you? 

But no.

There is another, apparently, another who his son would rather have come.

I do not say – but what of me? When is it my time?

That is not what he needs to hear from me.

 

 

 

As chance would have it – if chance you call it – I am one of the first to pick up the release of the photos.

I should have gone.

I should have been there.

But he told me to stay away – and I do not know how I can ever live with myself.

It is clear who has done this – he is there, dead also – but I know who will have sheltered him all these years that we thought him dead.

I pretend not.

I speak with Celeborn, I ask him to go to – to my love – to give him this worst, final news.

I will give my love his opportunity for revenge.

That is what he needs from me.

 

 

 

I know what my love will do, and so it is no surprise to me when this false friend tells me he is dead, pretends sorrow.

I ask him what was done to him, and I smile when he tells me.

His voice breaks in the reciting, and it warms me.

It is the last time I am warmed by my love.

 

 

My love is with his family now.

I do not know if there is – pleasure – in the afterlife, but if there is – I hope there is for him – if there is – at least I can be confident he will say the right name.

I carry on.

I have these elves to care for, this business to run, this charity to administrate.

That is what he needs from me.

Our race to – to regain honour, to wipe out the memory of what we did.

Someone must be here when the Spiders return.

I will be here.

I will wait.

Whatever he needs from me, he will have.

I am Caradhil. This I will do.

 

 

But I am glad I had that one perfect day.

**Author's Note:**

> And if anyone is thinking - why is Caradhil so much less concerned with Legolas than usual - I can only assume it is because in this fic, Thranduil, whatever his other faults, is a very good father. Looks as though Caradhil's parents lived longer, and that has an effect on him too.


End file.
